The Wolf and the Lion
by BookQ36
Summary: Fix-it-fic diverging from show canon after the s4 finale. Neither D&D nor Martin will give us a happy ending, so here's my attempt at making one plausible in Westeros while trying to maintain some of Martin's prose style. WITH: forgiveness, logic, satisfying death scenes, the return of beloved and long-absent characters, believable situations and most important: no one gets raped!
1. Sansa

**_The Wolf and the Lion_**

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 _In which Winterfell becomes the land of misfit toys. Lions and Direwolves living together… mass hysteria! It is unrealistic and totally thumbing its nose at both book and show canon, but I love a happy ending, okay? And both Martin and D &D have been very clear that they aren't going to give us one, so here's my take. Obviously, this story is wildly AU, but I've tried to be faithful to Martin's narrative style and HBO's depiction of both the characters and Westerosi politics. Set after the end of season four, cuz I needed some way to kill time until season five started, and I chose wild speculation and wish fulfillment._

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 _ **Ch 1: Sansa**_

Life is not a fairy story, where the heroes are handsome, brave and true, and the villains are ugly, stupid and easily defeated. She had grown up on fairy stories, and had even found her very own shining, golden prince whom she had been betrothed to. However, the dream had quickly become a nightmare.

Her prince had, in fact, been more wicked and cruel than the villains in any of Old Nan's stories, and the only people who attempted to protect her from him were a blood-thirsty deformed killer, a drunken imp whom she had been trapped into marrying, and a conniving, perverted little man who had been obsessed with her mother since he was a boy. It seemed that he had shifted his obsession to focus on her, and now she was essentially his prisoner in the Eyrie. After seeing her father's beheading, she hadn't expected to be so affected by watching Petyr Baelish murder her aunt Lysa Arryn, and her own reaction had surprised her far more than seeing her aunt be pushed out the Moon Door.

Cooperating with Littlefinger was the most sensible thing for her to do. The fact that her decision to do so had surprised him gave her some hope that, perhaps in time, she might be able to get the better of him. However, if she managed to get away, where would she go? There was nowhere to turn for help. Circumstance and her own choice in not being truthful with the lords of the Vale had trapped her, and now here she was, playing a part.

She had dyed her hair dark, to resemble her mother, in the hopes that it would further blur the line in his mind between herself and the late Lady Catelyn. Alternating between surprising him, cooperating and keeping him off balance seemed to be her best bet for surviving life with Littlefinger. She just hoped that he would show greater restraint than he had when he kissed her in the garden. She suddenly missed Lord Tyrion. He wasn't anything like the gallant husband she had dreamt of marrying; handsome, tall and noble, but he had always treated her with the utmost kindness and respect. He had never behaved inappropriately towards her, even keeping his promise not to share her bed unless she gave express permission that he might join her, and resigning himself to what would most likely be a loveless marriage. She doubted very much that Lord Baelish would be nearly as respectful or considerate. Being away from King's Landing and Queen Cersei was a great relief, but she was far from safe in the Eyrie. She would have to be very careful.


	2. Brienne

_**Brienne**_

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For the hundredth time, Brienne wished that Podrick hadn't managed to lose their horses. Arya had been assumed dead for nearly two years, and until the previous day, Brienne hadn't hoped to find any trace of the younger Stark girl, but then there Arya was, standing amid the rocks with Sandor Clegane of all people. The Hound had fought well. Not nobly or honorably, but well, and she had felt no small measure of satisfaction at defeating him. He had probably used every dirty trick at his disposal, but she could respect that, in a way. However, her joy at winning had been short-lived when she realized that Arya had used her preoccupation with the fight to run off. Podrick thought he saw the direction the girl had taken. It turned out he had been wrong, and no tracks led that way, so they had doubled back and found the spot where the Hound had landed. Small footsteps, like those belonging to a young girl, led away from his fallen form, so that was the way they were traveling now. On foot, carrying all of their gear and sorely missing their horses.

They trudged along, carrying their satchels and looking for any trace which might indicate which way Arya had gone. However, the mossy rocks didn't betray much in the way of tracks, so Brienne began to think that they should head back towards the Bloody Gate and the Eyrie, seat of House Arryn and home to Arya and Sansa's Aunt Lysa. Lady Catelyn had confided in Brienne that her sister was a troubled woman and not necessarily to be trusted completely, but that she would most likely be willing to help find the girls, if only in a small way. At this point, Brienne hoped that the Lady of the Vale would be willing to provide food, shelter, and possibly horses to speed them on their way. She had never been to the Vale before, nor had Podrick, apparently, so neither of them knew what to expect.

As they came to the top of a rocky bluff, she let out a breath and shook her head. There was a small patch of grass on the southern facing slope, warmed by the sun and graced by two horses contentedly eating their fill. She pointed their errant mounts out to Podrick, who seemed even more relieved than she was to see the horses again, although she suspected his relief had more to do with his dutiful nature than with the fact that he was unaccustomed to traveling long distances on foot.

The horses still wore their saddles, and she and Podrick made quick work of fastening their bundles and satchels and bedrolls in place once more, so before too long they were riding again.

"Milady, do you see that harbor?"

She noted where he was pointing and nodded. "Yes. What of it?"

"Do you think that Lady Arya might have taken ship there?"

"Why would she when her aunt's home is so close?"

Podrick shook his head. "I don't know, my lady, but it isn't far out of our way, and this may be where Arya was heading. We could at least ask if anyone at the docks has seen her. If they haven't, we can still go to the Eyrie afterwards."

She sighed. "Very well." She turned her mount's head toward the harbor and spurred her horse onwards.

After they reached the harbor, it didn't take long to find someone who had seen a girl matching Arya's description.

The dock worker, a grimy and heavily muscled man named Karlan, scratched his belly absently while he spoke. "Aye, she was here. She wanted to take ship up to the Wall, but weren't none of us goin' that way. The last captain she talked to come up from Kings' Landing an' was headed for Braavos. Dunno what they said, but she boarded his tub a few hours back, just 'fore he cast off at midday."

Brienne and Podrick shared a look. "Are there any other vessels bound for Braavos?"

"Mebbe." The man gave a greasy smile. "What's in it fer me?"

Brienne reluctantly took a silver stag coin from her purse and held it out for the man to see, but made sure to keep it just out of his reach. "If you show us to a ship bound for Braavos and we are able to book passage aboard it, I will pay you for your kind service." Ser Jaime had given them two bags of coin to aid in their search for Sansa, but Brienne didn't mean to spend it rashly. She was loth to waste it on someone who stood a good chance of either being mistaken or trying to lead them astray, either through greed or for more sinister reasons.

Karlan's eyes glinted unpleasantly at the sight of coin and he nodded, his gaze never leaving the silver in her grasp. "Easy enough. Wait here."

Podrick spoke up as their new friend turned and walked down the dock. "Are we bringing the horses along, my lady, or shall I find a stable to care for them?"

"Bringing them along, I should think. We will need to move quickly if we hope to find Lady Arya. Besides," she gave him a sideways glance and a small smile, "the horses seem to enjoy wandering away from you."

Her squire ducked his head and mumbled an apology. Although she had never had, or in fact wanted, a squire before, she was growing to like Podrick. Despite an abysmal first impression and that farce with the rabbit, he was proving to be more useful and better company than she had expected him to be, especially considering that he had previously squired for the Imp. Jaime's younger brother had a notorious reputation, first as a debauched drunk, then as a kin and Kingslayer, so she hadn't wanted to travel with a close associate of such a man, much less trust him with her life. However, Podrick learned fairly quickly, did as he was told and always addressed her respectfully, and when he did disagree with her, he did that respectfully as well. His knowledge of the ruling families had led them to the Vale, and to Arya. There was no denying that he was an odd boy, but then, _she_ had always been something of an odd girl, so in a way they were well-suited.

Brienne held her hand out for the reins to his horse. "See if you can find us something to eat. I'll mind the horses and wait here for news about our passage."

Podrick nodded, handing the reins over, and set off in search of food. She watched him go, and was jostled by someone hoisting a crate.

"Oi, we're tryin' ta work 'ere! 'Nless you're getting on or getting off, shift yerself an' the horses."

She moved back towards the harbor steps, leading their horses off of the dock. "Apologies. I'll leave you to your work." Never mind that the man had collided with her, Brienne felt herself foolish for getting in his way. She had grown up on the island of Tarth in the Stormlands, so she knew how important it was to not interfere with the loading and unloading of ships in port. She found a disused crate by the harbor steps and moved to sit on it. It would be easy enough for both Podrick and the dockworker who had seen Arya to find her again, and now she wasn't underfoot.

Podrick returned before too long, having found a vendor selling roasted fish on spits, as well as one who dealt in animal feed. After giving Brienne one of the fish, he put grain in the horses' nosebags and set out a bucket of water for them to drink from. Brienne watched him absently as she dug in to her meal. He pet the horses, speaking softly to them as they munched their grain, and then began to pare an apple with his small knife.

Unlike the courser Ser Jaime had given her when they set out from King's Landing, which was a fine bright chestnut mare, the horse Podrick rode was far from a lord's mount. It was a dark brown, nearly black gelding, and hardly better than a stot, which seemed to explain why it had given him so much trouble on their journey, leaving the road at every opportunity to munch on grass and weeds. She had attributed that to Podrick being an inexperienced rider, but as time went on it became clear that the mount's hunger was more of a problem than the rider's ineptitude. The poor beast was a shade too thin, and more interested in grazing than plodding along at a good pace. Whenever they made camp near grass and low shrubs, the nag seemed content, and she suspected that was why it had run off while they slept on the rocky lowlands; to find food. She had mentioned these thoughts to Podrick, and now the boy had devised a new way of keeping them close.

"If I can't hobble them well enough, maybe feeding them their fill will stop them running off again." He nodded at a small sack of feed as he set it aside and sat down to eat his own fish.

"Maybe," She agreed, watching with some amusement as Podrick's horse moved a bit closer to them and started snuffling through its nosebag at the apple he was holding. The animal's large head gently butted against Pod's shoulder, surprising the boy, and it pawed the ground with one hoof. It seemed her squire's plan was working all too well; now that his horse realized that Pod was all too willing to feed it, the beast couldn't seem to get close enough. "Just be sure you don't feed them too much. They won't be any use if our saddles won't fit around their bellies."

"Yes, my lady." He gently scratched under his mount's bridle as he ate one-handed. He undid the feedbag and slipped a few bits of apple into it before fastening the strap again with an awkward smile. "At least I know what to call him now."

Brienne finished her last mouthful of fish and wiped her hands on her padded surcoat. "Oh?"

The boy gave a pleased smile. "Beggar."

Brienne nodded and filled her cup from the horses' water, looking the newly-named 'Beggar' over. "It suits him. I haven't given mine a name." She had thought about giving her mare a name related to flame, since it was a bright chestnut, but had reconsidered when thinking of fire reminded her too keenly of Stannis' worship of the eastern fire god. She would not wish to ride an animal which reminded her of Renly's murderer. Unlike Beggar, her mare was sedately munching at her nosebag, eyes half-closed while she ate and tail absently twitching flies away. "I'll call her Ahne."

She caught sight of Karlan hurrying over to them and stood to meet him. "Well?"

He was red-faced and puffing for breath when he reached them. "There's a ship leaving for Braavos within the hour. They're taking passengers, but I don't know about the horses."

"Lead us to it." She looked back at her squire. Judging from how happy he was to have Beggar snuffling at his shoulder and whickering, it seemed as though the boy had never had a pet of his own. "Podrick, lash the feed bag to your saddle and bring the water."

"Yes, my lady." He quickly got to his feet and began fastening a wooden lid atop the water bucket.

Karlan led them down the docks to a large ship whose captain smiled at them and gave a slight bow as they approached. They exchanged greetings and one of the crew started to lead Beggar and Ahne up the gangplank. At her quick nod, Podrick followed to keep an eye on their mounts and sparse luggage. Negotiating payment for their passage was a simple enough matter, and once she had paid Karlan his silver stag, they were ready to continue their search across the Shivering Sea.


	3. Jaime

_A/N: This update has taken so long because RL is cruel and intemperate, and I am no longer on speaking terms with it *throws self into fanfic* Also, happy season 7, everyone! I haven't seen the premier yet, so if you are kind enough to leave a review, please don't give any spoilers._

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 ** _3 - Jaime I_**

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Jaime Lannister watched as Queen Regent Cersei ripped a scroll to shreds and let the torn pieces flutter to the floor. _I hope there was nothing of importance on that parchment,_ he thought.

Her chambers were a mess of papers, lit candles spluttering on their sides as they lay on the floor, surrounded by spilt wine and shattered glass.

"He escaped!" She shrieked, tearing about the room. "He murdered our son, he murdered our _father_ , and the little monster escaped!"

 _If she's looking for something else to throw or break,_ he thought _, she may have to go to another chamber_.

Even if Tyrion had killed their father, which was something he was far from certain about, Jaime wasn't convinced that hunting down his little brother was the most pressing concern facing the realm.

The Night's Watch had sent raven after raven begging for help against a wildling army led by Mance Raider, and the only surviving scout from a party nearly a hundred strong had reported seeing an army of wights and White Walkers marching south. The crown was several million in debt to the Iron Bank of Braavos, Stannis Baratheon was somewhere raising troops to support his claim to the throne, the gold mines beneath Casterly Rock hadn't yielded a single ounce of ore since before the War of Five Kings had started, Dorne had become restless and possibly hostile since the death of Prince Oberyn, the Freys had been besieging Bryndyn Tully at Riverrun for months and failing to capture it, there were Lannister men pillaging and burning the Riverlands for sport, destroying both crops and useful smallfolk who would be needed to feed the region , and as the Starks were fond of saying, 'Winter is coming.'

Faced with these problems, any reasonable person would be forced to admit that the realm was in an awful state, but sadly, Cersei was far from reasonable. Tommen was king, but he was both too young and too inexperienced to rule well without the benefit of wise counsel. If Cersei tried to teach him to rule… well, everyone knew what kind of a king Joffrey had been. Margaery Tyrell could be a better influence on Tommen, but by the time he was old enough to rule, there might be nothing left of the Seven Kingdoms but ashes. With the Hand of the King and the Master of Coin both dead, and the Master of Whisperers nowhere to be found, Cersei was effectively in charge of the Seven Kingdoms, and blind to everything but revenge.

"Why didn't you kill him? You had the chance, you had a dozen chances, when you visited him in the cells." She strode towards him, eyes blazing with fury, and he could smell wine heavy on her breath. "You could have gutted him then and father would still be alive!" She beat her fists against his chest while he stood fast, waiting for her rage to burn itself out. "He's killed them all. Father and mother and Joff..."

Once he would have tried to console her, to explain his actions, to hold her close and promise to kill anyone who came between them… but that time had passed. It ended the day that Cersei demanded he kill Tyrion. When she described their brother as a disease, revealing that she had blamed their mother's death on Tyrion since the day he was born, that had been the end. There had been other moments, before that, of course, but that had been the final death blow of any passion Jaime felt for her.

 _She said I took too long to escape from the Starks, as though I had any control over that,_ he thought _. She still made use of me, treating me as no more than another member of the Kingsguard. There was that nasty business in the Sept of Baelor… that might have been the end, or another step towards it, but telling me to kill our brother?_ That had been a step too far.

"What will you do?" She hit him hard in the chest, making him wobble slightly. Her green eyes were bloodshot from weeping, and her voice suddenly became soft and fearful as she studied him. "Will you do nothing?"

He let out a heavy breath and stepped back from her, unwilling to let her seduce him as a means to get what she wanted. "What would you have me do?"

She closed the distance between them and craned to whisper in his ear, her lips just brushing his cheek as her fingers clutched at his arm. "I want you to find him and kill him."

"No." The word was quiet but firm. "I won't do that. He is our brother. I would die for him. I will _not_ kill him."

"You will not?" She let go of his arm as though it had scorched her. "You won't be Hand, you won't avenge father or _our son_?"

Reasoning with her while she was in this state, maddened by grief and deep in her cups, was probably wasted effort, but he had to try. "I'm ill-suited to be Hand, Cersei. We spoke of this before. It's an honor and a burden I don't want. As for the rest, Tyrion didn't kill Joffrey. Much as Tyrion disliked him and thought he wasn't fit to rule, he didn't do it."

She shook her head, "The trial – "

"That farce? If everything I ever said against Robert, in earnest or in jest, were paraded before the court, _I_ could have been suspected of killing your beloved husband, but I'm no more guilty of that than Tyrion is of this and you know it. You've always hated him, you said it yourself. That trial was your opportunity to kill Tyrion, which you have clearly wanted to do for a long time." He stood close to her, suddenly feeling oddly calm. "Lie to the people if you must, but don't lie to me. I know the truth of it. I don't know who killed our son and neither do you. Tyrion was just convenient."

He headed for the door, tired of her games and her plots. He heard the soft splash of wine being poured and shook his head. Once he had asked her 'why have the gods made me love a hateful woman?' _I suppose they decided to release me,_ he thought, _for I don't love her any more._

She called after him, "I'll get someone else to hunt down the little beast." When he turned to look, he saw Cersei gesturing towards the courtyard with her wine glass. There was a scroll in her other hand with no seal on it. "Here is the order. Double the bounty we put on the Hound. All it needs is Tommen's seal."

Jaime stopped just inside the door. He was tired, so tired of trying to keep her from destroying herself. "We don't have the money, Cersei. Even if someone manages to find and kill our little brother, how will you pay them? Will you sell your jewels?"

She scowled and turned her back. "Leave me. You aren't fit to serve on the Kingsguard."

He made a small bow and sighed, coming to take the scroll from her. "As you command, Your Grace. I'll see that King Tommen seals it. Consider this my last act as Lord Commander of the King's Guard."

Once in the hall, he shut the door to her chambers behind himself and walked past Ser Meryn Trant who was standing guard at her door, not sparing the proud knight a second glance. Ludicrous. Hated as Cersei was, no queen regent had ever needed to be guarded at all hours of the day. Then again, he doubted that any queen in the past three hundred years had been as paranoid, rash or prone to fits of rage as Cersei had become of late. Even if they had been as volatile as his sister, none of them had held nearly as much power over the realm as she did. He walked down the corridors to his own chambers, planning. He had few enough belongings which he prized, and the bulk of his possessions could be shipped to Casterly Rock easily enough. Whether he would follow them there was a different matter entirely.

It was simple enough to pack up his belongings and lay out traveling clothes. When he had come back to the capital after losing his hand, no one had recognized him. He had just been another man in dirty clothes, a face in the crowd. The beard had helped with that and now he was clean-shaven, but he would find a way to make do. He would leave King's Landing under cover of darkness and never look back. There was nothing for him here, nothing which he might be able to excel at, and no chance to better himself. The Red Keep and King's Landing only held a life of bowing, scraping and scheming, and he didn't mean to spend the rest of his days that way. However, as Tyrion had once told him, 'life is full of possibilities,' and he had seven kingdoms to choose from. There was only one thing he needed to take care of before leaving.

After a quick visit to the Tower of the Hand for a few needful items, and some careful preparations, he came upon Tommen – that is, King Tommen – in the gardens, happily speaking with Queen Margaery about some matter or other. As he moved closer, he saw that his youngest child was playing with an orange cat. Margaery held a bit of string in her hand and would tug at it every so often, causing the end to skitter across the gravel path and Tommen's cat to stare in rapt fascination. Tommen would laugh at the simple game, and Jaime was lothe to interrupt the peaceful scene, but he knew all too well that no peace lasted forever.

When they heard his approach, Queen Margaery gracefully rose to her feet and turned a brillant smile on him. Having grown up with Cersei, he knew what sort of things could hide behind a smile.

"Your Grace," he bowed, and when he straightened, she regarded him with warm, intelligent eyes.

"Lord Commander, it is an unexpected pleasure to see you." She gestured behind herself to where Tommen was still playing with his cat. "Did you have some business with his Grace?"

"Yes. The Queen Mother has charged me with delivering this scroll to His Grace. It must bear the royal seal before the orders on it can be considered valid. As there is no Hand of the King at present, this duty falls to His Grace."

While he spoke, Tommen had bestirred himself and joined them. "What is on the scroll, uncle?"

Jaime smiled down at him. "Nothing you need concern yourself with, Your Grace. Simply a dull matter of state."

Tommen frowned at that. It was a thoughtful frown, borne of genuine concern and curiosity, and which would not have seemed out of place on Tyrion's face. "Should I not be the judge of what I need concern myself with? As king, it is my duty to rule the realm, and affixing my seal to any orders without reading them first does not seem wise."

He caught Margaery's eye and thought that he saw a glimmer of satisfaction there. It seemed that the new queen wasn't content to let Cersei use Tommen as a puppet, and to that end, she was encouraging Tommen to make his own decisions. Well, that was promising. "You are quite right, Your Grace. Perhaps, after you have appointed a new Hand, your good queen can help to teach you about ruling and delegating responsibility. It is true that the king must know what is afoot in his kingdom, but it is also true that there are too many matters of import for the king to attend them all himself."

Margaery gave him the barest of nods. It seemed that she agreed with what he was saying, and gladly furthered his line of reasoning. "After all, Your Grace, that is why the king has a Small Council and a Hand of the King, that the wise men he has chosen may attend to matters of the realm. Once they have sifted through the chaff, they may bring the wheat to the king's attention. In that way, it is ensured that the king does not squander his time or attention on matters of little consequence."

Tommen seemed to consider their words, then he nodded and held out his hand for the scroll. "Very well, Uncle. I trust you."

With a relieved sigh, Jaime handed over the scroll and gestured that the royal coulpe should follow him. He had seen to it that a small desk and chair were moved to the edge of the garden, near one of the covered walkways which was dim enough to necessitate torchlight even at midday. Jaime gestured for Tommen sit, laying the scroll out on the desk for his Grace, and smiled at the candle and stick of sealing wax which had been laid out as he had instructed. "If you please, your Grace."

Tommen sat, watching with great interest as Jaimed lit the small candle from a nearby torch and then brought it back to the desk. Between them, Jaime and Margaery showed Tommen how to hold the sealing wax just so over the candle flame, and the king watched with great fascination as the wax dripped down onto the parchment. Once a small puddle of white wax had been formed, Tommen's smile faltered. "I don't have a seal."

Jaime reached into his pocket and retrieved the seal which he had gotten from the Tower of the Hand. "Here, your Grace. Simply press it into the wax until it no longer feels soft against the parchment."

Once the wax seal had hardened, Tommen handed both scroll and seal back to Jaime, smiling proudly. "That was the first time I've used sealing wax."

Jaime felt a twinge at that, but merely nodded pleasantly. "It was well done, your Grace. One would think you had sealed a great many documents." Margaery glanced down at the wax seal and quirked a surprised eyebrow, but said nothing as Jaime stepped away. He let out a queit breath, wondering to himself why Margaery hadn't remarked on the seal. He gave her a smile and nodded at Tommen. "I am certain that her Grace would be happy to answer any further questions you may have about using sealing wax. In fact, I am certain that your wise Queen has many ideas about how best to serve Your Grace and the realm. Rely on her above all others."

Not for the first time, the young king seemed perplexed. "What about mother?"

"You mother loves you, but she is reluctant to realize that you are not only a king, but a man, and that she cannot do everything for you as she once did." He hesitated before adding, "It was your mother who taught Joffrey to rule, and I don't think that you wish to be the sort of king that he was."

A look of horror crept into Tommen's eyes, and it seemed as though the boy understood what was being said. He clenched one of his hands into a fist. "No, I do not wish to be that sort of king."

He nodded. "I am relieved to hear that, Your Grace, as no doubt most of the realm would be. Now, I shall leave you in Queen Margaery's capable hands."

Jaime bowed to the son he could never acknowledge, and the woman who was his Queen and daughter-by-law, and left them to play with Ser Pounce.

"Lord Commander?"

He had begun to stride towards the inner bailey, but turned at Margaery's voice. The young queen was smiling at him, an uncomplicated smile, and he found himself returning the expression. "Yes, Your Grace?"

She looked away briefly, and smoothed her hands over her skirts, her nimble fingers idly brushing away a bit of cat hair from the silk before folding demurely behind her back. When she met his gaze once more, he saw thoughts whirling behind her eyes. "I simply… wanted to thank you for your concern as to His Grace's well being, and for being kind enough to give him the benefit of your counsel. I am certain that he will find it invaluable in ruling the kingdoms."

He made one of the countless subservient gestures which once was expected to make after being complimented by the queen. "It was my honor, Your Grace. Now, if you will pardon me, I must take my leave."

Queen Margaery nodded and took a step closer, letting one of her hands come to rest on Jaime's wrist. She dropped her voice low enough that Tommen would be unable to overhear her. "Safe journey."

He hid his surprise with a nod, and lowered his voice as well. "The longer Cersei stays in King's Landing, the more chance she has to plot against you. See that she is sent back to Casterly Rock as soon as you are able. Ser Ilyn might make a fine escort."

She smiled and inclined her head to indicate that she had understood, then rejoined her husband in the sunlight.

Jaime entered the inner bailey and once he was out of sight, he turned the seal of office in his hand, smiling down at the falcon and crescent moon sigil on it before slipping it back into his pocket.

On his way back from the gardens, he stopped by Tommen's chambers – which had belonged to Joffrey, and to Robert before him – and found the Valyrian steel sword which his father had given to Joff at his wedding breakfast. Joff had named it 'Widow's Wail'.

He shook his head _. I must come up with a better name for this sword,_ he thought _._ Something more appropriate, since this blade was forged from part of Ned's Ice. 'Winter's Bite' perhaps? _It ought to be something to do with the cold._

It ocurred to him that since he had already gifted Brienne with the sword which she had named 'Oathkeeper', both pieces of Ned Stark's ancestral blade would be leaving King's Landing. Somehow, it seemed oddly fitting that the remnants of that sword should not remain in the place where Ice had been used to kill poor old Ned. He wasn't certain yet where he was bound, or what he might do with the rest of his life, but he did know that whatever decision he made, it would be his own descision, not meant to please his father or Cersei or anyone other than himself. He smiled. There was an odd freedom in knowing that, a freedom he had not felt since before Aerys had named him to the Kingsguard.

He kept the sword at his side as he packed the rest of the things which he would be carrying from the capital.

He had asked that a horse be saddled and waiting for him at sunset. After being at Joffrey and now Cersei's mercy, the stable boys knew better than to question any of the Lannisters or to speak of their comings and goings. The horse was waiting for him sure enough, and the boy quickly and quietly fastened Jaime's bags to the saddle. Jaime looked at all the straps and buckles, then down at his 'hand'. If ever a man needed a squire, this was the time.

He looked down at the stable boy, thinking. "What's your name, boy?"

The boy blinked up at him, clearly frightened. Jaime smiled, trying to put the lad at ease. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you. It just occurs to me that I may need some help where I'm going, and I was wondering if you might like to be my squire."

The boy nodded, eyes gone wide in his dirty face and his mouth hanging open. "I… I'm…" He straightened his scrubby tunic and looked up at Jaime, smiling. "My name is Gerd, m'lord."

"Do you have any family, Gerd?"

A sadness came into the boy's eyes. "My father was a groom at the royal stable, m'lord, and my sister was a maid in the Red Keep, but they tried to steal a horse and some goblets during the Battle of the Blackwater, and Queen Cersei had them executed."

 _Ah,_ Jaime thought, _that may complicate matters. Then again, I imagine that he might welcome the chance to leave King's Landing._ At least it would prevent the boy from suffering further at Cersei's hands.

Gerd fidgeted nervously, "I'm only twelve."

"Ah, I wasn't that much older than you when I squired for Ser Barristan Selmy, and you can't possibly do a worse job than I did. Saddle a pony for yourself, Gerd, and grab your cloak. Pack whatever you wish to bring along, but mind that I have ample coin to buy whatever supplies we may need. "

The boy nodded eagerly and set to work. While Gerd was readying his pony a few stalls away, Jaime saw a flash of gold at the end of the row of stalls. _Odd,_ he thought, _guards aren't posted to the stables at night._

Heavy footsteps came towards him, and Jaime moved to stand flush against the wall, so that if their gold-clad friend should come into the stall, he wouldn't be spotted straight off. For a moment, Jaime wasn't sure why he was hiding. True, he didn't want his flight from the capital to be known until he was well away, in case Cersei tried to stop him, but surely allowing one goldcloak to know of his plans wouldn't prove disastrous. After all, Margaery Tyrell already knew, but of course she was good at keeping secrets.

The stranger stepped into each stall in turn, moving closer to the one Jaime was in. When he got close enough, Jaime recognized him as Ser Meryn Trant. Not only was Ser Meryn a member of the King's guard, but he was also Cersei's creature, and he had been one of the knights that Joffrey commanded to strip Sansa Stark naked and beat her in the throne room. Meryn had also beaten Sansa on other occasions at Joffrey's orders, never questioning that it might not be honorable or wise to treat a high-born hostage in such a way. Jaime had never been as dishonorable as people believed him to be, but he had never thought of himself as a hero, either.

 _Just as well,_ he thought.

In his lessons with Bronn, it was clear that he would never be a decent swordsman with only his left hand, but while he had been discouraged by that, Bronn had only smiled.

"Aye," he had said, "you'd be dead before you could spit, if you tried to hold your own in a swordfight, but there's plenty other ways to kill a man."

Jaime had scowled at the sellsword, nodding at the sea wall near where they had been practicing. "If you tell me I can beat them to death with my metal hand, I'll chuck you into the waves right now."

Bronn had only grinned at the threat. "No. I've got something much better than that shiny club you got strapped to your stump." He held out a small bundle wrapped in cloth and bound together with rough cord.

Jaime had pulled at the cord and the wrappings had fallen away, revealing a dagger the length of his forearm. It was nothing fancy. The blade wasn't Valyrian steel, there were no gold or gems worked into the hilt or grip or pommel. Just plain steel and brown leather; simple, honest and brutal. _Much like the sellsword himself,_ Jaime had thought at the time. He had picked up the blade and felt the balance, hardly noticing that Bronn had stepped away and picked up a wooden training dagger.

"Right. A dagger is better for close quarters fighting than a sword, anyway, and you don't have to be pretty about it. You already know where to cut or stick a man to make him go down, so that'll help. Knife fighting is more about how much you want to survive than it is about style or anything else, so you'll stand a better chance at it anyhow. If you had a hook instead of that fancy gold hand, you could use it to parry or pull aside a man's blade, but we'll just work with what we've got. If you can't win by comin' straight at 'em, you gotta come from the side or behind. I'll show you how to kill a man quick and quiet with that blade. Won't win you any tourneys, but it might help you to keep breathing a while longer. There are even ways to kill with no weapons. You just gotta know how."

Bronn had kept the training sword for himself and had given Jaime the training dagger, smiling. "Now, let's see if you can slit my throat."

In the stables, Ser Meryn stepped into Jaime's stall, and quick as he could, Jaime grabbed the man from behind. He used his stump to knock Meryn's helmet off and wrapped his right arm around Ser Meryn's neck in the same motion, pulling the man backwards so Trant's head was level with his own chest. He held his left hand flat against the crown of Meryn's head, pressing his forearm on the back of Meryn's neck and forcing the man's head to stay upright. In under a minute, Ser Meryn went limp and slumped to the stable floor. Bronn had taught Jaime how long to keep the hold going if he wanted to make someone pass out and how long to do it for if he wanted to kill them. It was a difference of moments.

Did Meryn Trant have to die?

Probably not, but he deserved to. Besides, Jaime was curious to see how effective this method of killing actually was.


	4. Tyrion

**_4 – Tyrion_**

* * *

Tyrion Lannister tried to think of something worse than being seasick in a crate, but nothing came to mind. The ship bucked and rolled and heaved, and his stomach followed suit.

This was a miserable voyage. Leaving aside the reasons for it, which were disheartening enough in their own right, the method of his flight from King's Landing was proving to be one of the most unpleasant things he had endured, and that was saying something.

His nephew had been murdered, and Tyrion had been unjustly blamed and tried for the crime. He was surprised by Cersei's vehemence about his supposed guilt, but not that she had decided to blame him or that their father had used the trial to his own advantage. Jaime's visit had cheered him, despite his older brother initially doubting his innocence and refusing to break him out. It was disappointing enough that Bronn wouldn't stand as his champion, but watching Oberyn Martell throw away his victory for the sake of avenging his sister Elia had dashed his last hope. The younger Prince of Dorne had doomed them both. Tyrion had heard that the Red Viper drenched his spear blades in manticore venom, so all Oberyn had needed to do was slash the Mountain a few times – which he had done – and then stay out of range while the large man succumbed to his poisoned wounds. If only his champion had stayed at a safe distance, the Mountain may have confessed and Tyrion would have been freed, but, not for the first time, the gods had declined to save him.

The lid to his crate came off and he was worried, but it was only Varys. Then again, Tyrion remembered the last time he had seen Varys interacting with a man in a crate. Granted, that had been the sorcerer who had cut the Spider, but he couldn't forget how filthy and terrified the crated man had looked. Or the fact that the man's mouth had been sewn shut.

The eunuch smiled his soft smile down at Tyrion.

"If you have come to apologize for my accommodations, don't bother. Just give me some water and a pot to be sick in."

"Oh, I've found something much better than that."

Tyrion shook his head. At the moment, he couldn't think of anything better than being sick into a pot instead of all over himself. Unlike the lid and sides of his crate, the bottom did not have holes cut into it, so he was sitting in his own filth, and his boots and bottom were soaked. The stench was less than pleasant.

Varys turned around and spoke to someone Tyrion couldn't see. "Please, my dear. We mean you no harm."

A girl's voice answered him, sounding hard and angry, but vaguely petulant as well. "It wouldn't matter if you did. I can take care of myself."

Varys chuckled. "I have no doubt of that, my lady. I pride myself on knowing what is going on in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond, but sadly, even I had given you up for dead. I must say, finding you alive is quite a welcome surprise."

"Why? Do you want to ransom me too?" There was no fear in her voice. If anything, it was a challenge.

Tyrion stood up, curious to see who this girl was. At a glance, he took in her grey eyes and brown hair, both so familiar. He had only seen her once, at a banquet in Winterfell. He had been somewhat drunk at the time, and she had been a child, throwing food at her older sister to embarrass her. Her hair was shorter now, she wore filthy boy's clothes, and she had lost some baby fat, but she was unmistakably the same girl. Where Sansa favored the Tullys, Arya was all Stark. "Arya?"

She looked at him, proud but wary. "How do you know me?

Varys chuckled. "Forgive my manners. Arya Stark, may I introduce you to Tyrion Lannister."

Tyrion was acutely aware of the fact that he was covered in his own sick and filth, that he stank, and that he was still standing in a crate. Hardly the best way to be introduced to one's sister-in-law. "Varys, would you be so kind as to help me out of this crate? Now that we are at sea, I believe it is safe enough."

"Agreed." Mercifully, Varys didn't elect to bodily lift him from the crate. The eunuch found him a pair of step stools, placing one inside and one outside of the crate, and offering a steadying hand to help him over the edge.

Arya's expression never changed as she watched him climb out. "Is it true you killed Joffrey?"

He shook his head. It seemed no one wanted to ask him anything else, lately. "No, it isn't, but I'm glad someone did. He was a terrible king. What he did to your father and sister was shameful."

She arched an eyebrow at him, seeming to measure his words before she spoke again. "What about my mother and brother. Did Joffrey have anything to do with _that_?"

Tyrion shook his head again, wondering how the girl would feel if she knew that Tywin had supported Walder Frey, and that Tywin was now dead by his younger son's hand. She would probably thank him. More likely than not, the Stark children were the only ones who would. "No. Although afterwards he did want to serve Robb's head to Sansa at his wedding feast. I protested such an insult to my wife, and the Small Council was able to persuade him to abandon the plan."

Arya cocked her head slightly in curiosity, showing her age yet managing to maintain the haughty air which she seemed so intent on projecting. "Your wife?"

 _Ah. So she didn't know about that._ "Yes. Sansa and I were married some time ago at my father's behest. He claimed it was to cement a loyalty between our families… but in truth, it was to prevent Loras Tyrell and your sister from marrying, which would have established an alliance between Highgarden and the North. Our marriage has been… amicable thus far, although my incarceration for Joffrey's murder has severely limited any recent opportunities for time alone. As I understand it, she fled King's Landing shortly after Joffrey's death, and I am unaware of her present whereabouts. My turn." He narrowed his eyes at her. "Why are you going to Braavos?"

Her mouth twisted to one side as she thought about her answer. "To learn to be a faceless man."

"That is a difficult aspiration to achieve." Varys went to tuck his hands into the ends of his sleeves, but a quick sniff confirmed that some filth had transferred to his hands from Tyrion's clothes. There was a small basin of washwater nearby, and he dabbled his hands in it, wiping them on a small cloth afterwards.

"You mean for a girl," she spat, a hand going to the slim sword tucked into her belt.

Varys smiled indulgently. "I mean for anyone." He glanced out the porthole, his pleasant, patient expression never wavering. Tyrion knew the Spider fairly well, and it seemed that Varys was enjoying this repartee. "We are almost in port. What do you intend to do once we reach our destination? Do you have money? Do you speak the language?"

She looked impatient. "It's a port city that does business with the Seven Kingdoms. I'm sure some people will speak the common tongue, and I can always ask the sailors."

"My lady…"

"I'm not a lady." She whipped her sword out and leveled it at him.

Tyrion held his hands up in token of surrender. "As you will. Lord Varys and I merely wish to help you if we can. Would you be willing to let us try?"

Arya's eyes flicked from one man to the other. "You have three days. Find somewhere we can stay. If you can find a ship that will take us to White Harbor or Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, I'll stay with you." She lowered her blade slightly.

Tyrion shook his head, smiling as he began to understand.

 _Of course. The Wall._ Jon Snow, her half-brother, the only member of her scattered family whom she knew for certain that she would be able to find. He doubted Varys' willingness to return to Westeros, especially considering the fact that the eunuch hadn't planned on accompanying him in the first place, but if Arya was alive and half as fierce and bright as she seemed, and they could get her into the North safely, the northern lords would no doubt show them gratitude… perhaps even protection. "We'll get you to Jon. I haven't seen him for a while, but I did travel with him when he first got to the Wall, and I stayed on for nearly a month."

She put the sword away, and for a moment looked like nothing more than a lost little girl. "How was he?"

He smiled. "Cold. He made some friends. The master at arms there is a particularly nasty fellow, but the Lord Commander is a good man."

She nodded, thinking it over. "You were in a crate because people think you killed Joffrey."

He lifted his too-short arms over his head, both hearing and feeling a satisfying pull of muscle and sinew as his back stretched. "Yes. Not the most pleasant way to travel, but better than letting Ilyn Payne cut my head off."

She offered him the beginnings of a smile. "I'm glad Joffrey is dead."

He smiled back, pleased that no pretense was required for the time being. "As am I, but people who spent less time with him than we did may mistake our relief at his passing for complicity in the act, so it would be wise if we kept such thoughts to ourselves."

Arya gave another nod, a pensive look passing over her face. "Do you know who killed him?"

He had to shake his head. "Sadly, I do not. However, I know who had the most to gain from his death, and the most cause to wish him dead. Your sister, Sansa, had more cause than almost anyone in the Seven Kingdoms to wish my repugnant nephew ill, and she disappeared from the capital shortly after he died."

Her earlier composure had all but disappeared, and now Arya Stark seemed no more than she was: a young girl who was fiercely loyal to her family and who had seen far too much horror for one so young. She shook her head, trembling with either fear or indignant rage, "Sansa couldn't have-"

Tyrion smiled again, and risked laying a hand on her arm. "Yes, I know. Despite the evidence pointing to her guilt, I sincerely doubt that your dear sister is capable of murder. That is not to say, of course, that a circumstance will never arise where she would be capable of it, but for the time being, she is no murderer."

"Of course," Varys put in, "Lady Sansa was far from the only one who would have benefitted from his death. Young Tommen Baratheon will no doubt be crowned king before too long, but he has always seemed a sweet child, and I sincerely doubt that poisoning his elder brother, cruel though Joffrey may have been to him, would have ever occurred to the lad."

Tyrion shared a look with him, silently asking the eunuch how far the young Stark should be taken into their confidence. Varys merely gave a soft smile and inclined his head. Tyrion sighed. It seemed that his savior wished that nothing be kept from Arya Stark. They already knew that the girl was bold, and she must be both clever and strong to have survived so long on her own after escaping King's Landing. There was no doubt in his mind that she had every possibility of being useful. After all, she was a Stark – a living, breathing standard for the houses of the North to rally behind – and Tyrion had to admit, he was curious to see just how clever the girl truly was.

"That leaves, of course, Joffrey's poor widow."

Tyrion unbuckled his soiled wool jerkin and peeled himself out of it. As he had only been given one change of clothes after his arrest, it was the same garment he had worn during his captivity and at his own farce of a trial… and now it was covered in sick. The linen doublet beneath it was only in slightly better shape, having been stained with sweat and grime from sleeping on the floor of his cell. Still, he judged that being somewhat undressed was better than smelling of vomit and shit. At the moment, however, there was nothing to be done about his trousers.

Arya let out a humorless breath. "She's lucky his last day was also their wedding day. I'd take a lifetime in the Seven Hells over being married to _him._ "

Varys regarded her carefully. "Indeed, but Lady Margaery seemed just as surprised and distraught as the rest of us when His Grace began to choke."

"So who do you think did it?"

Varys gave his best innocent shrug. "I wouldn't dare speculate, my lady."

She narrowed her eyes at him, studying him carefully for nearly a minute before she spoke. "Yes you would. You have been already, so why stop now unless there's something you don't want to tell me?"

The eunuch smiled. "Our young friend is very perceptive, isn't she? Well, I should think that the most likely culprit was someone who wanted to spare Lady Margaery from a lengthy marriage to His Grace, but who did not wish the lady herself any ill. The only person I can think of who has such a vested interest in Lady Margaery's safety and position is her grandmother, the Queen of Thorns. A formidable woman, and one who, I daresay, is capable of anything in the course of protecting her family and advancing their standing."

Tyrion gave him a surprised look and gestured for Varys to move aside so he could cleanse his hands and face with the washwater. "I assume that you were you planning on telling me this?"

"Not until we reached Essos… or you stopped drinking long enough to listen, whichever happened first. You may recall how concerned Lady Olenna was with your wife's happiness at the wedding, and the almost motherly way in which she fussed with Lady Sansa's hair, as well as the necklace which was found to be missing a jewel after the feast. A jewel which contained, as it happened, the very poison which had been mixed into His Grace's wine." Varys frowned. "You wouldn't happen to know where your wife got that necklace?"

Tyrion paused in cleaning his hands. "I believe she said that it was a gift from Ser Dontos, in gratitude for preventing Joffrey from executing him on His Grace's nameday."

Varys made a thoughtful noise. "As I recall, before he was made into the king's fool, Ser Dontos was set to fight a freerider in Lord Baelish's service, and it was no secret that Lady Sansa convinced Joffrey to spare Ser Dontos' life. One of my little birds told me that Littlefinger had just such a necklace made some weeks before the wedding, but I thought nothing of it at the time. However, upon reflection, the pieces seem to be falling into place. The Strangler is a fast-acting poison and Joffrey had quite a bit of wine during the feast with no ill effects. It wasn't until after he ate the wedding pie that he sickened. If you recall, His Grace's goblet was only left unattended when Joffrey so heroically cut the pigeon pie with his sword, so how do you suppose the poison found its way into his wine?"

Tyrion frowned, trying to recall the exact details of what had happened at that point of the feast. "Sansa was at the opposite end of the dais when the pie was cut, and all eyes were on His Grace. No one was watching the grandmother of the bride, and the goblet was within Lady Olenna's reach." Tyrion shook his head. With everything else which had been going on, he had forgotten. "I had fetched His Grace's goblet and filled it with some wine before the pie was brought out. Afterwards, when His Grace insisted that I stay to act as his cupbearer, I fetched his goblet again. There was a bit more wine in it than there had been before, and I thought nothing of it at the time, assuming that some servant or other had poured more wine into it. However, when I went to pick it up, Lady Olenna gave me an odd sort of look."

Varys nodded. "Yes, I noticed that as well. I didn't know what to make of it at the time, but as I have had ample time since then to think about the events of that afternoon, I have come to the conclusion that there might have been some significance to how intently the Queen of Thorns was watching you as you carried the wine back to Joffrey."

He tried, and failed, to not feel betrayed. "How long have you suspected this?"

"I had my suspicions, the same as anyone, when Joffrey died, but no proof. I still have no proof, and certainly nothing with enough weight to alter the course of a rigged trial or stop Cersei from blaming you for her darling boy's death. All I have, my lord, are the songs of little birds, songs which indicated that Littlefinger and Olenna Tyrell had some sort of alliance. Littlefinger had the necklace made, Ser Dontos gave it to your lady wife, so it stands to reason that at some point, Ser Dontos entered Littlefinger's service, because how else would he have gotten a necklace of the exact same description. Thanks to your keen observations, I can safely assume that at the wedding, Lady Olenna must have taken one of the poisoned jewels from the necklace and placed it in His Grace's wine cup whilst everyone was distracted by the pie. It is no secret that Lady Sansa was seen fleeing towards the docks of King's Landing in the company of a man in motley, and Lord Baelish's ship had been in the harbor for a few days, but by nightfall that day, it had sailed off. It was brought to my attention some time ago that Lord Baelish was preoccupied with travel arrangements. When he was making ready to set out for the Eyrie, he purchased two feather beds for the cabin of his ship, and as my wise and dearly departed confidant was kind enough to explain, there are very few people in the Seven Kingdoms whose comfort Littlefinger would care enough about to warrant such an expense."

"And Sansa is one of the few." Tyrion slowly dried his hands on the small cloth, shaking his head. "The sequence of events seems quite clear. According to your theory, both she and Ser Dontos were mere pawns in this scheme. After using my wife to bring to poison to the feast, Lady Olenna did the deed and then Littlefinger guaranteed Sansa's escape, which incidentally served to make her seem all the more guilty. It seems you have assembled a compelling, if circumstantial, case against Littlefinger and the Queen of Thorns. Well, had they not happily let the blame fall on me, I would be tempted to congratulate them for a job well done."

Tyrion realized that the Stark girl had been quiet for some time. Tyrion looked around the cabin, finding, to his horror, that Arya was nowhere to be seen. He and Varys had been so caught up in untangling political intrigues that they hadn't thought to keep an eye on her, and while they were so occupied, the girl had slipped away.


End file.
